More Antique Roman
by MistWraith
Summary: Complete. I should have said yes back there, when Dean said he wanted to visit here. Well, they were here now. Oneshot. Please R&R.


**Disclaimer**As always, nothing of The Pretty belongs to me, and I am making nothing financial from this story.

**A/N** Hopefully, this is a somewhat different take on an idea that undoubtedly occurred to _every_ Supernatural fanfic writer after "Croatoan". WARNING: this is a death fic. Please R&R.**  
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**More Antique Roman...**

Sam leaned against the railing. It _was_ a spectacular view, no doubt about that, but it left him unmoved. It would have been different if his brother had been here beside him. He could see Dean now: Trying to keep his "been around the block more than once" macho exterior, even as his eyes grew to plate-sized proportions, and he muttered little under-his-breath "wows". Sam could just imagine what Dean's overactive horndog imagination would have made of a particular rock formation Sam could see from this particular vantage, and he smiled.

It was the first time he had smiled in a week.

Ever since the hunt for the Demon had reached its final, grisly conclusion. In the end, the Winchesters had had their pound of flesh; the world had been saved; Sam would never again have to worry about yellow eyes in his dreams or being used as a tool for evil means; and his life had acquired a big brother-sized hole in it. And Sam had made that trip to the Grand Canyon.

Just a little too late.

_I should have said yes back there, when Dean said he wanted to visit here. It was only the second thing he ever told me he really wanted. I shot the first one down in Chicago—though if he told me the same thing today, he would get a different reply and I wish I could tell him that—and walked away from the second because I needed to know what was going to happen to me._

Always, to _him_. When Dean had spoken of visiting the Grand Canyon, of how he had crisscrossed the county but had never had time to stop and really _see_ it, Sam had pushed the real meaning behind those words to the back of his mind, because the Demon's plans for him had been his first priority. Dean had never had the chance to do the things everyone else took for granted: Travel to sightsee, take a vacation, make friends, play sports, take up a musical instrument. Hell, _anything_. Sam had, but only because Dean buffered him, had made sure that his geek brother got as much time as possible away from the hunt and in the school environment that mattered so much to Sam. So Sam could argue with his father about soccer practice versus bow hunting; for Dean, it was never even an option.

Sam had had more than three "safe" years, away from the things that go bump in the night. But Dean--from the time he was five years old, Dean had spent every waking minute involved in the hunt. He had never had a day off, never had a vacation, was never able to put the burden down, never able to rest.

_He is at rest now._

Sam felt the familiar stinging in his eyes and he blinked rapidly. He had shed enough tears this last week to send a modern-day Noah scurrying to build an ark, and he had vowed that he would not mar his final goodbye to his brother with a chick-flick moment that Dean would hate. As the drops rolled down his cheeks, he realized it was a vow he would be unable to keep.

Some of the tears shed, he knew, were for himself as well as for Dean. He had prided himself, when he was a stupid eighteen-year old, on being the _independent_ Winchester brother, not like his—what had he said back at the Roosevelt Asylum?—pathetic and mindless older brother who marched lockstep with their Dad because he was unable to do anything more. He had been pleased at breaking away, unafraid to be alone.

Sam understood everything better now. Understood his caring, loving, generous brother who had sublimated every need and want and dream to those of his family. And understood how much _he_, Sam, really hated being alone. He thought he had not quite fit in at Stanford, but the truth was, he had missed the one constant he had ever known in his life. Dean. And now, he was not sure how he could face, alone, the road that stretched for years ahead of him.

_What a damn selfish bastard you are, Winchester! You think Dean **wanted** to leave you behind?_

No, of course not, though some part of him wondered if Dean had not been amazed to find that, in the end, it was _he_ who was the first to leave.

The formations across the great abyss began to change color again, shifting from the bright yellow and ochre hues of the day to the red and orange of sunset. Sam had been standing in this spot for over two hours, unable to bring himself to take the final step, the one that would finally, irrevocably, take him to the last time he would ever be near any physical presence of his brother, even if it were but ashes.

Now was the right time though, the dying sun mourning with him.

He turned and started back toward the Impala, which stood silent and still up near the rim road. It was odd, but it had seemed to him, these last few days, that the car had been...quieter, the engine no longer roaring out its challenge to the road. A sad smile played across his lips; Sam was not the only one who missed Dean. He had promised his brother he would take care of Dean's beloved car, and no matter where the future led him, the Impala would be his means of getting there.

The urn bearing Dean's ashes—burial was not for a Winchester, not with everything they knew—had made Dean's last trip in the Impala in the passenger's seat, something Dean would have hated. On the return trip, the container would be empty of all save memories.

He had not taken two steps before the Impala's engine came life, not in the muted tones he had been hearing this past week, but with the muscled roar he had come to expect every time Dean turned the ignition key. _My God, someone is stealing the car—and **Dean**! I must have left the keys in the ignition. How could I have been so stupid?_ He began to run forward and, as he drew closer, he could see through the windshield into the car's interior.

The driver's seat was empty.

He screeched to a halt, stunned, his hand patting his pocket and feeling a familiar lump. Reaching in, he pulled out the car keys. He stared at the Impala, the keys dangling from nerveless fingers. Then, as he watched, the car began to move forward, down the incline and toward the canyon's edge. It picked up speed and Sam jumped aside as it swept past him.

He understood then. After twenty-five years of carrying her family into battle against the supernatural, some of the power, the unearthly energy, they were around constantly had seeped into the Winchesters' battle charger.

And the Impala had no intention of traveling that road to the future without Dean. _"I am more antique Roman than a Dane."_

She reached the edge and, with another roar, she flew out over the canyon. For one breath-stopping moment, they hung there, Dean and his baby, the blood-red sun's rays setting her black exterior a flame. A fiery star going nova.

Sam turned away. He would not watch them fall. He would remember them always the last way he saw them, flying free and heading for the heavens.

He walked up to the rim road and started back toward the visitor's center. If he were lucky, he would be able to hitch a ride to the center, and then bus to...he had no idea where to go or what he would do. The road ahead of him was indeed a lonely one now, without even the Impala to share the travel with, and the past was now forever closed.

But if there was one thing he had learned amidst all the travails and sorrows to which the Winchesters had been heir, it was that nothing was forever and all roads ended. Somewhere down the road, he knew he would be riding shotgun in a sleek, black four-wheeled steed again, with Metallica blasting away and evil scattering to the winds before them.

And he smiled.

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**A/N**: The quote, "I am more antique Roman than a Dane" is from _Hamlet_; Horatio telling the dying Hamlet that he would, basically, go out with him. Please let me know what you think.


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